The song from your lip is a memory, a scream from the forgotten skies the fire on your breath is the scar tissue from a scorned sun; the starlight from a crashing meteor that is marked by life yet carries the scent of death.
The words that fall from your half opened mouth are switch blade knives that cut through the edges of my skin, a whisper that slices through my bone with the force of a sledgehammer.
The story you narrate as the starlight slips in through the blinds is inchoate, as indecisive as the thoughts that run like unchecked rainwater in your mind your face an uncut gem a treasure that I might forever seek but never find.
Sometimes they laugh because they do not see what is so beautiful about clinging on to candlelit dreams at the edges of your hair; they have not a prayer of comprehending the peace that floods into your skin like fresh air upon holding fireflies in your fingers.
Sometimes they laugh because they read the words scribbled but not the soft laughter that lies between them they will never have the simple pleasure of knowing what music does to your soul when your body has forgotten how to listen.
Sometimes they laugh because they think they know you because they have memorized every inch of your face, and every unsteady step of your feet but they never have and never will know the white hot flame of your shadow nor the red mist that is the cornerstone of your heart.
That is the sound of your voice trying to whisper into your ears as you try to find the song that passed you by two decades ago at the foothills of the vast and withering wilderness.
That is the sound of your skin trying to tear itself away from your blood and bone as you try to outrun a memory that clings to your body like shadowy mist on a cold December dawn.
But we came to the gates where sin slept and angels lay sun beating down upon our fates you were calm and I was fey how terrible are our minds yet so bleak and beautiful too but our souls shall always know how we learned to walk in the rain and dance in the snow.
Mama sits under the sun singing to herself, humming to the wind, telling me that you could make stories out of shadows if your mind's not too worn out and your heart's really in it, and I promise myself that someday I'll spin tales out of fire and magic out of thin air.
Mama has callused skin as she tells me the earth is kind to those who are willing to get their hands dirty, who don't shy away from a spot of blood, the ones who put in the hard yards come rain or shine, and the rain falls steady like silver diamonds as we sip coffee on wasted days.
Mama is long gone up there somewhere in the skies slow dancing with the stars until she became one herself and I pick up my pen and claw at the wind, chasing words in a room half lit trying to remember that anything could be poetry if my heart's really in it.
"Go", says the voice on the other side of the creaking door and my heart knows only one of us can be saved, maybe the gods have written it such that only one of us will be saved so I bolt towards the blinding light, leaving your footsteps to fade away in the dark.
A decade has passed and your face is a memory seared into the outer edges of my weary skin, your voice a song that I forget, yet it floats at the tip of my tongue your life a pawn I traded for a month of freedom and a lifetime of nightmares.
Here lies the tide resting at the depths of a restless ocean a tide that shall surely make its way to the shore and sweep away the sand, wash away the footprints, no matter how much you will it not too.
Here lies the storm that is waiting at the edge of ashen skies a storm that shall surely wreak havoc of a kind quite terrible for a sane mind to truly comprehend it carries death and misery no matter how much you will it not to.
Here lies the butterfly that shall alter the course of history forever.
This is a rant which I wrote a few days ago on the night when I found out people in my family and my neighbours being Corona positive. I felt so scared and disappointed and the feeling of "ah shit, here we go again" came. So I decided to write. For it was the only sane thing, as I've mentioned in the piece as well, around me.
Also, for people who knew I'm gone, I'm back!
@writersnetwork just letting you know. Will read everyone soon, I promise. I love you guys.
A man Is pleased By the adorations Tied on poems By the mirror Every single morning Under the Sun of blushes -
The shadow Sleeping behind him Tries to lift Itself to look In the mirror, Incessantly struggles And fails, Embedded under The man’s name And brick -
It did succeed To look into the mirror One night When he was asleep, Yearning for poems And tongues to Recite hymns Of praise, But under the skies Of Dark The Moon Slipping under The mountains With the Sun to make love And in the morning He is up again To brim with blushes - How can one at all Blame the mirror In this Sea of Biasness?
˜”*°•.˜”*°• //Hello everyone, I am Raika and you are listening to Mirakee FM 304.// •°*”˜.•°*”˜
It's a beautiful day to live, with sparrows chirping love songs and writers inking about their heart breaks.
Love and pain, pain and love- do they belong together?
To answer this question we have with us, Miss Devika, a poetess/writer. 'Hello, Devika what do you think about this?'
"Yes love is pain, and pain is love. Without pain you won't be able to realise the power of your love.
People say pain acts as a catalyst to bring out the love you have for someone, to some extent it is correct but when there's just pain and misunderstanding and the other person isn't trying to understand you, that's when you have to confront them, and if they aren't able to empathize- it's time to leave.
Love isn't always about perfect sunsets with your loved one, love is about the storm, how you both walk hand in hand in it and come out with rainbows on your head as tiaras. It's about the tears you shed to build your abode, away from everyone else, your home. Just you and your love"
Wise and beautiful. Answer and the person, both! Thankyou Devika for your time.
As we conclude this thought, Love for some is the cure to all wounds, and for some- it is the wounds. Just like @season_ says, 'Love is a two edged sword You love bad, you kill You love well, you heal'
But you see, love is more than just wounds and cures, it is everything in between. It is war, with a lavender crown on his head, his hands are red of that of blood but he holds a precious white rose, gently.
Love is nothing like you imagined, it is something that comes to you one night at a time and fills you with emotions you didn't know your heart is capable of feeling.
I once read a prose by (eurusgrey) Miss Sakshi, she said, 'Someone once told me I was the sun, who turned everything around her to ashes, but believe me Darling, i'll burn myself down before letting even a flame near you.'
Love can make you do things. Big things.
Writers tend to write the most on this topic. I once asked a dear friend of mine, Sakshi (my_cup_of_poetry) to describe someone she loves and she said, "With stars tucked in his eyes, he looks like a poetry that never withers away!"
And now that we are at it, I have Hafeez on call, 'Hi Hafeez, can you hear me? Tell me something about hearbreaks.'
" Heartbreaks are check points that prepare your heart for true love. Hearts are broken so that they may be petrified again with the lacquer of love.
I derived it from Kintsugi, which is a Japanese art where broken vessels are lacquered with gold.. And made more beautiful. "
That is a beautiful message to everyone walking around with a broken heart in their chest.
We are almost out of time, so here i will quote the wisest of all- Hayat, " To be human is to love, and to love is to do so unhumanly.
I don't think one can be a human without 'loving' (and no, it's not just the romantic kind, it doesn't even have to be a person. Emphasis remains more on it being an activity in some or the other form, more than on the subject of its bestowment. ) And the fact alone that a human can love, transcends the mortal confinements of what 'the humanly form' constitutes of. One would be surprised to fathom such an overflow of something so divine, and to be intentionally ironic, not-humanly-possible -- from a thing so mortal, so trivial, so meek, so common, in its existence.
That'd also make sense when an experience of love in our lives doesn't go good, sometimes we may even regret it or be deeply saddened by; in the bigger picture, isn't something to be felt "bad" about or regret to. We loved unhumanly. And we loved so in all our human selves. That experience is a validation of our lives in itself. The journey is something of what it means to exist in itself."